


For Him I Remain

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Tumblr Prompts [9]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Groping, Incest, M/M, One Sided Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sea Grunkles, Stancest - Freeform, Victim POV, dark!stan, drunkle ford, ford dont get it up at all, fucking the unaroused, not aroused at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 18:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13957254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford owes Stan everything. He doesn't always like it.TLDR;Stan likes to fuck Ford even though Ford isn't into it.





	For Him I Remain

**Author's Note:**

> “A relationship is likely to last way longer, if each partner convinces or has convinced themselves that they do not deserve their partner, even if that is not true.”  
> Mokokoma Mokhonoana
> 
> (I fuckin' forgot that I wrote this, the hell.)

The kindest thing Stan allowed him was his drink. Well, and the bed, the roof, the food, the twins. Stanley was generous when Ford thought about it, staring at the bottle in his hands. Stan was everything that Ford hadn’t been. Ford had cast Stan out thrice; denied him like Peter to Jesus. And how apt that Stan should be the savior, the final sacrifice.

Ford supposes that makes him Judas.

Ford supposes he might be drunk; Stan rarely lets him get drunk. Most of the time the liquor cabinet  is locked . Ford could pick the lock, and to his shame he sometimes does, but he defers to Stan’s care.  Besides, Stan leaves the beers free for Ford because he understands; sweet Stanley understands . Stan does so much to protect Ford from himself in this small boat.  But tonight, the unlocked cabinet gives Ford the chance to indulge, to squirrel away sips and tastes into crevices Stan wouldn’t bother to look . It feels like a trespass, to hide something from Stan like this when Stan wants the best for him. But sometimes it’s all too much. The guilt and the rage and the shame.  His hands shake too much from withdraw to pick the lock without leaving the scuffling marks that has Stan glare at him, furious .

But Ford is selfish, always has been.  That’s why he’s drowning his guilt in liquor, because nothing could forgive him; there is no penance to excuse being party to an apocalypse, for shifting the cost of hubris to poor, broken Stan . For forcing his nephew to share the weight of the world.

Ford thinks he does not have enough liquor.

Stan finds him drunk. Not wasted, not so gone that he can’t recognize the look in Stan’s eyes, the flush on his face.

Ah, Ford thinks, it’s one of those nights.

“Sixer,” Stan says. Ford looks at him, at his lips rather than his eyes; those eyes are too intense. (Without the years of homelessness and loneliness wearing him down Stan is sharp and hard. Predatory.)

“Stan,” he says back. Stan chuckles as he walks into the tiny galley and sits next Ford.

“Can I?” Stan asks, reaching for the bottle. Stan knows Ford won’t deny him. Doesn’t know why Stan bothers with this facade.

“Of course,” he says, must say, and pushes the bottle to his brother. Stan takes a swig, no glass. Ford watches Stan’s throat work, sees the appeal, but he feels nothing.

That’s why Stan lets him get drunk these nights. Stan is kind enough to understand that Ford doesn’t get it; doesn’t feel the same spark of heat and hunger. But Stan deserves every pleasure and indulgence. Ford doesn't mind, not  really .

They are shoulder to shoulder. Ford doesn’t mind. When Stan leans over to mouth at Ford’s neck he bares it. Stan isn’t gentle, he shouldn’t be. When he nips a sensitive spot Ford gasps.

“Eager. Eager for me,” Stan growls, hand coming up to hold Ford’s head. Ford stares at the wall. “Aren’t you?” Stan demands, fingers digging into Ford’s face.

“Yes,” Ford says. It’s too toneless and Stan picks up on that. He isn’t unkind; he never is.

“With me, Ford?” He asks, another hard bite, a reminder to stay present. Ford gasps.

“Yes,” he hisses again. Tries to let arousal take him over. It doesn’t and Ford doesn’t know if that’s the alcohol, his age, or  just him.

“My good brother,” Stan murmurs against his skin. “My Ford.”  A distant part of Ford screams against this (this is wrong this is wrong he fought so hard to get away from Stan once this is wrong) but he squashes it  fiercely . Stan deserves this.

“Yours,” Ford agrees as Stan gnaws at his neck. He feels Stan grunt and pull away.

“It’s okay that ya don’t mean it,” Stan says, so smart and clever to know Ford’s heart even as Ford turns away from the shame. “Hey, I gotcha.” Stan kisses Ford’s jaw. “Meet me in the bedroom,” Stan says with another small kiss to Ford’s temple. Ford nods. Stan leaves.

Stan  really is too kind, Ford muses as he drinks again. Who else would let him–well, Stan knows Ford doesn’t feel the same and lets Ford cope. 

He’s old and drunk and he might not be able to get aroused. That’s okay. He takes a few more gulps of booze before leaving the bottle on the table. He doesn’t want it back in the cabinet yet. He’ll want it after, too.

The bathroom is a wet room of a toilet and shower combined. He has enough space that he can spread his legs and finger himself open. Too  quickly ,  probably , but alcohol helps him relax faster and Stan is waiting.  His fingers are gross and wet and he feels,  foolishly , that he cannot get them clean, no matter the water and soap and rough towels . 

Stan is waiting. And Stan has waited enough in his life.

Stan is a patient saint, sitting against the headboard, palming his dick with low, appreciative hums . Ford takes a moment to marvel that his brother is here and safe. Stan sees him and smirks.

“Well, hi there.” Stan beckons him and Ford goes. He sits on the edge of the bed, ass slick and empty. Stan pulls him into a kiss and Ford yields to Stan but there are still hard teeth. Ford wonders how a man who wears dentures can  utilize them so  aggressively . Stan pulls back with a frown. “Ya know, I don’t think yer into this.” He says and Ford pales.

“No, of course–Stan, I–” Ford stumbles over himself. “I love you.” It’s the right thing to say, Stan beams at him, cups his cheek, scratches a sideburn.

“Ya sap, I know ya do.” Stan pecks him and Ford can imagine that it’s nice. “Yer so good fer me.” Stan says against his lips and Ford feels a hand smoothing down his stomach, straight for his zipper. “You love yer brother, dontcha?” Stan asks between licks and nibbles. Ford nods. “Did ya get wet for yer brother? Good and loose for me?” One of Stan’s hands slides under Ford’s jeans. It’s a tight fit until the hand in the front pops the clasp and worries at his  fly . Then Stan’s hand goes straight to grope his ass and then his fingers slide to palpitate his hole.  Ford bites his lip against any noise but can’t stop the instinctive twitching as Stan rubs and then pushes, two of his blunt fingers  easily sliding in . Ford groans. “So, good for me.” Stan murmurs. “Such a slut for your brother, huh?” Ford tries not to grimace.

“Yes,” he says.

“It’s okay, Sixer,” he says, licking hot and wet at his neck. “You’ll mean it someday.”

Stan is usually quick with his fucks, another courtesy to Ford that he doesn’t deserve, but tonight is different . Stan is touchy tonight, stripping Ford fast and then laying him down to straddle him. Stan’s hard cock and balls bump against Ford’s flaccid dick as Stan  lazily grinds against him.  He rubs a broad palm over Ford’s chest, scratching his hair, his nipples, leaning down to suck more bruises into his neck . The other hand is on Ford’s member, trying to tug it to hardness. Ford grunts, a little dizzy from drink.

“Come on,” Stan pants against his ear. “Get hard for me, Sixer.”

“Stan,” Ford groans. Stan’s hands are rough, sea life has honed his softness into something practical and rugged. He’s trying to get Ford hard, putting the effort to change his grip, swipe at the head.

“Come on, Ford, I know you can,” Stan abandons Ford’s dick and reaches into him instead, fingers pushing until he hits the prostate . Ford moans, hand grabbing the sheets. It’s a  much feeling. Not arousing,  just a muchness that moves blood to his center. “Atta boy,” Stan’s nails scrape over his chest, his stomach, his pubic hair until it wraps around his cock. Ford feels his dick twitch like a tired hound.

“I’m sorry,” Ford says. “I can’t.” Stan sighs and presses hard enough against his prostate to hurt.

“You’ll make it up to me,” Stan murmurs, removing both hands–Ford moans–and kissing him  chastely . “Now turn over.” Ford does, grabs the pillow to stuff under his hips. He can hear the pop of a cap, the sound of lube.  His mind starts to swim a bit, remembering the cycloptapus, the sounds it made (a squelch and suction and it left marks) .

“Ah!” Ford’s startled back to reality by a slap on his ass.

“Stay with me, Sixer,” Stan leaves his hand against the spanked spot; his hand is broad and warm. Ford mumbles something, he’s not quite sure what it is. “I should  probably watch yer drinkin’,” Stan sighs.

“No! No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” Ford smiles over his shoulder as Stan. In the dimness of the room Ford isn’t sure if Stan looks menacing or charming. His eyes are wrinkling at the edges, smiling like he understands Ford. Ford feels a swell of love and gratitude. 

“Get ready for me, babe,” Stan whispers and pulls back. Ford can’t help the flinch, the reflexive tensing. Stan tsks, runs a hand down his sides like he’s a spooked horse. “Relax, Sixer. You trust me, dontcha?”

“Of course,” Ford says even though his body doesn’t feel the same. Stan sighs and spreads his ass cheeks.

“Trust me ta save the world but not with yer ass, huh?” Stan chuckles and Ford hangs his head in shame, slumping under the weight of his guilt.  Stan takes that moment of distracting, consuming guilt to press against Ford’s hole and  carefully enter .

Ford isn’t ready for it, but sometimes that’s better. Less anxious waiting because it isn’t pleasant when he isn’t aroused. It isn’t painful (and sometimes it hurts like he's tearing apart) but it’s uncomfortable. He grits his teeth against a whine, listens instead to Stan’s low, satisfied groan.

It feels like it takes too long, goes too slow, but then it’s over and Stan’s inside him. (Sometimes, if he drinks too much or too little he starts to panic, but tonight he’s okay. He’s a good brother for Stan; he takes care of Stan like he promised to all those years ago.)

Ford expects that now Stan will fuck him hard and fast; get this over with. But Stan patient with Ford's body; he is slow to pull out and to push back in.

“Fuck, Ford,” Stan groans like he’s hurt, like Ford has hurt him (he can’t do that again). “You’ve gotten looser.” Stan says, still slow and careful.

“Sorry?” Ford breathes knowing that if he says it too loud it will become a gasp or a whine. Damn his pride.

“S’okay.” Stan starts to pick up his pace, angling his hips  experimentally . When he hits Ford’s prostate again it’s almost cruel. Ford knows it’s not, knows his sweet, brave brother would never.  But it’s starting to hurt: the stretch, the burn, the uncomfortable feeling of something jabbing into him and bruising . He wants to ask Stan to stop but doesn’t. He can take this if Stan wants it.

He shoves his face into the mattress to muffle a pained shout.

“No, babe, come on, lemme hear ya.” Stan grabs his hair and pulls, forcing his head back.  Ford shouts again and whines as Stan tightens the grip on his hips and starts to move  enthusiastically .

Ford cries out with every thrust, feeling torn and bruised from the inside out. He isn’t crying but his deep gasps sound sob-like.

“ Just like that,” Stan groans, his loud panting a call to Ford’s moaning response. Stan doesn’t last long and Ford hates himself for being grateful when Stan grunts and spends inside him. Stan falls  heavily on his back. A hot, tired hand reaches around Ford’s quivering stomach to palm his limp prick.  Stan makes a low hum of disappointment but kisses Ford between his shoulder blades before pulling out . “Gonna give a guy a complex,” he says and Ford can hear, taste the grin but it hurts. Everything hurts.

“Sorry,” he says to the bedsheets. He feels the bruises on his hips, on his neck, inside him. Stan falls to the side with a huff. Ford  is humiliated by his feelings; by staring at the mattress with his ass in the air. He  distantly feels as if his father is behind him and judging him. He almost laughs but hiccups instead.

“Ya  really got a drinking problem, huh?” Stan asks  blithely .

“Only when I run out,” Ford smiles  darkly to himself. When Stan doesn’t laugh he turns his head to look at his brother. Stan’s  regarding him  shrewdly . To his credit, Ford doesn’t squirm.

“I love ya, Ford,” Stan says and strokes his face, his overgrown sideburn. Ford lets him. It feels nice.

“I love you, too.” Ford sighs, a small swell of happiness covering his sharp edges. Stan pats his face. It should feel condescending, being pet like a dog, but it feels nice when Ford is so sore. Still, Ford lifts himself from the bed, makes to leave when Stan grabs his arm.

“Stay, Ford.” Stan mumbles. “Ya never stay.” Ford complies, wiggles the pillows so that he can lay down  comfortably , ass still sore and sticky. It’s disgusting, but so is he. Stan wraps an arm around him, gropes his ass a moment, nuzzling into his neck. He chuckles when Ford flinches. “Get some rest, Ford,” he murmurs with another soft kiss. “I’ll take care of ya in the morning.” Ford nods and thinks: I don’t deserve this.


End file.
